


Just a Little Goddamn Quiet

by guilty_pleasures_abound



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Caring, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Napping, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21887407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilty_pleasures_abound/pseuds/guilty_pleasures_abound
Summary: There were few things he hated more than giving in, even if it was giving in to himself, but there was only so long he could teeter on the edge of a psychotic break. He couldn’t teeter anymore.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91





	Just a Little Goddamn Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> ie; Rick is a mess, and he knows Stan begrudgingly loves him enough to take care of him when he can't take care of himself.

Rick Sanchez didn't sleep. He worked, he invented, innovated, fought, drank, discovered, explored. Sometimes he wedged in a little time to eat, watch tv, play music. But he didn't _sleep_ , he did all those other things until he _passed out._ Sometimes with the help of alcohol, and sometimes his body just simply caved in all on it's own, but it wasn't sleep, not really. It was the OS of his body doing an involuntary shutdown.

And it was fine, for the most part. It had been that way for decades, it was just how life was when your brain was a screaming rocket 24/7. He'd pass out for a few hours, he'd come back around to the land of the living, he'd abate the pounding headache behind his eyes with a good, fat joint. Rinse, lather, repeat.

It was fine until the days it wasn't fine. It was fine until getting black-out drunk over and over because he couldn't get his brain to _shut the fuck up_ just made him feel sick. It was fine until his body was so uncoordinated and shaky from exhaustion he couldn't even hold a pen but he _still_ couldn't shut down his racing thoughts long enough to slip into oblivion.

There were few things he hated more than giving in, even if it was giving in to himself, but there was only so long he could teeter on the edge of a psychotic break. He couldn’t teeter anymore.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled to himself as he made a portal, the coordinates as familiar to him as his own name, as utterly unforgettable as what was waiting for him on the other side.

He hadn’t the faintest clue what time it was in Gravity Falls; hell, he didn’t even know what the time had been on his side of the portal, but he knew that the light coming in through the Mystery Shack’s windows was far too bright and there was far too much noise on the other side of the living room door that lead into the gift shop.

“Don’t forget, ladies and gentlemen, these mugs are limited edition! Won’t find them anywhere else, so don’t miss your chance!” Stan’s voice was unmistakable, doing his best sales pitch persona for the idiots buying useless crap in his gift shop. It was a circus Rick had watched before, one he even found entertaining on occasion, but on his third day of a vicious headache and his stomach twisting like it was full of live snakes, he was in no mood to watch.

He sank into Stan’s chair instead, drawing his long legs up and twisting and scrunching himself completely onto the seat with his head pillowed on the arm of the chair. It wasn’t what he _needed_ , not by a long shot, but it was _better_ ; Stan’s voice floating over the din in the adjacent room, the familiar scent of the man firmly ingrained in the fabric of the chair under his cheek.

He almost managed to doze; almost. It was more of a lull, his brain still chugging along with furious determination, but the speed slightly reduced.

“Rick?” It took way longer than it should have for him to process Stan’s voice saying his name, the man’s heavy hand laying gently on his shoulder. “Ricky, you hurt?”

Stanley Pines was the only man in the multiverse allowed to get away with calling him Ricky.

Rick found the energy to open his eyes, Stan’s face a little blurry around the edges but Rick could still see the unmistakable pinch of worry between his bushy eyebrows.

“Not hurt,” he managed to grunt.

The worry lessened a little, but Stan still put a hand across his forehead instead, not even pretending that he wasn’t trying to feel Rick’s temperature for a fever.

“Fuckin’ nerd,” Rick grumbled.

“You’re the one who looks like shit, taking up all the space on my chair.”

“I just need a recharge,” Rick sighed. “Just some goddamn quiet, and it doesn’t get much quieter than the middle of the woods.”

It did, actually; the vacuum of space. But the vacuum of space didn’t have Stan in it.

Stan’s hand brushed back from his forehead and over his wild hair with a long-suffering “uh-huh” grunting in his throat. “Wanna move upstairs and lay down, then? I’ve got more tours to do after lunch.”

He _did_ want to move upstairs, but he didn’t want to be there without Stan, that was the whole _point_ of this. _Laying down_ he could do anywhere, laying down _with Stan_ he could only get here.

“Close early,” Rick insisted. “Come upstairs with me.”

Stan’s hand pet his hair again. “I can’t do that, Ricky. Gotta keep the lights on somehow.”

“Uggghhh you’re so… you’re frustrating, Stan.” Rick closed his eyes again, annoyed and more exhausted than he knew how to express, and Stan was worried about doing _tours_.

“Quit your bitchin’.” Stan was also an asshole. “You’ll be fine for a few hours.”

“You don’t know that.”

Stan scoffed, but still his hand stroked over Rick’s head again. “Yeah I do. Now, you need me to carry you or are you gonna make it there on your own?”

“Fuck you. Just leave me here to die."

Was he being dramatic? Yes. Did he give two shits? Absolutely not.

Stan sighed again with exasperation, stepping away from him with an aggravated grumble that sounded suspiciously like "this motherfucker."

Rick stewed in irritation, scrunching up tighter on Stan's chair with a scowl and completely nonsensical tears threatening to sting his eyes. Goddamnit, he hated exhaustion like this; it made him just as prone to emotional bullshit like _crying_ like a goddamn _pussy_ as being completely shitfaced did and he hated it.

The weight of a blanket laying over him a moment later did not help his fight to keep his tear ducts from betraying him, only now it was from the wild swing of his emotions from annoyed to desperately wanting Stan under the blanket with him.

"You're still an asshole." Goddamn his voice wavering.

"Mm-hm." Stan even tucked the fucking edges around him like a total sap. "You want a sandwich? I think I got enough ham for two."

He tried to remember the last time he had eaten. A day ago? Two? Still—despite the time lapse between meals—his stomach gave a nauseated spasm at the idea, so he shook his head.

"I'll make you soup or something later," Stan replied to his refusal. "And I'll get you a Pitt."

He'd normally scoff at the overly sweet soda Stan gulped down, but there was a high chance his blood sugar was low, contributing to how much of a miserable mess he felt. He’d take the soda, and chase it with water for good measure, because there was no question he was dehydrated too.

He merely grunted in the affirmative, subtly curling his fingers into the blanket Stan had draped over him as the other man lumbered into the next room.

He was back with the Pitt a moment later, setting it on the ridiculous T-rex skull he was using as an end table, and Rick cracked one eye open to see that Stan had brought water too, as well as a sleeve of saltines. God, he was becoming such an old man, having saltines just lying around.

Rick waited until Stan had returned to the kitchen to make his own lunch before sitting up, rubbing a hand over his eyes before reaching for the Pitt. Stan had even popped the tab for him, how sweet. He rolled his eyes at the thought.

As he remembered, it was overly sugary, but not unbearable, and he interspersed his sips of it with the water; drinking about half of both before reaching for the saltines. He was pleasantly surprised when it settled his stomach a bit, bringing a sense of relief he hadn't realized he needed as much as he did. If pressed, of course, he would absolutely refuse to tell Stan that.

He put the saltines aside when he heard Stan’s heavy tread a little while later, having eaten about half the sleeve but absolutely ready to deny it if Stan opened his fat mouth about it.

He didn’t, he didn’t even pass through the living room again, instead heading back into the museum part of the house; presumably for the afternoon tours.

Rick grumbled, swallowing the rest of the water in three large gulps before scrunching back down in the seat again, curled up under the blanket as he let his eyes rest.

He came around to the feeling of a stiff neck and nagging bladder, a heavy hand on his shoulder, and the smell of something savory hitting his nose.

“Come on, bud,” Stan’s rough voice murmured. “Soup.”

It was with great effort that Rick opened his eyes, groggy from the light sleep he had somehow managed to slip into. There had to be weird, drowsing spores or something in this chair, he was convinced.

It took his sluggish brain a moment to process, taking in the visual information that Stan was hunched over the chair, stripped down to his tank shirt and boxer shorts, stupid fez still firmly wedged onto his head. He was also holding a bowl, which Rick assumed was where the smell was coming from. Didn’t Stan mention something about soup?

“Up ya go,” Stan encouraged, his whole hand fitting around Rick’s thin arm and tugging him upright. “Can you hold this on your own or am I gonna end up with soup all over my chair?”

Rick mustered a glare, clumsily pushing the blanket that had pooled in his lap off to the side so he could stand up. He absolutely _did not_ sway, goddamnit.

“M’fine,” he insisted. “I’m gonna take a leak. Unless you think you need to hold it for me?”

His sneer was met with Stan’s flat, unamused stare. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen, then.”

Rick waved him off, refusing to put his hand steadyingly on the doorframe as he made his way from the living room toward the Mystery Shack’s lone bathroom.

Shit, he looked as bad as he felt. He stared at his reflection as he washed his hands, trying not to think about the brown hue of his urine that told him just how dehydrated he really was. The bags under his eyes felt like craters, his eyeballs bloodshot, his color ashy, his hair disheveled and the beginnings of a beard on his face. When was the last time he showered, come to think of it? He’d worry about that later.

As promised, Stan was waiting for him in the kitchen, making his own meal at the stove. Rick’s bowl of soup was on the table, along with a fresh glass of water and the remainder of the sleeve of saltines, so Rick sank gracelessly into the chair to eat it.

The soup was mostly broth, Stan too cheap or too lazy to get the good stuff, but within the first few spoonfuls, Rick realized how ravenous he felt, his sense of hunger returning with force and making it really easy to ignore the quality of the soup. Still he forced himself to take it slow, too many damn years of experience under his belt to not know that scarfing it down after so many days of starvation would just result in him throwing it all back up again.

“Alright?” Stan asked, bringing his own plate to the table and setting down a can of Pitt along with it. He had made himself an omelette that was messy enough to almost qualify as scrambled eggs instead, with a side of toast loaded with butter and strawberry jam. Rick eyed it wistfully, but stuck to his soup for now.

“Getting there,” Rick mumbled.

“Good,” Stan replied simply, giving a nod as he picked up his fork to dig in.

One of the benefits, Rick considered, of thirty years of knowing someone was the fact that silence was never really awkward. It was at worst neutral, and at best cozy. Stan knew when to push Rick for answers and when to let it rest; he understood the way Rick’s brain worked, even if he couldn’t always follow his train of thought. So at times like this, when Rick would show up looking like hell without warning, Stan had come to just roll with it instead of trying to interrogate Rick about how he got that way. Hence, silence.

“There’s more in the pot if you want it,” Stan grunted at him when the edge of his spoon started scraping the bottom of the bowl.

“Nah,” Rick sighed, finally putting the spoon aside in favor of picking up the bowl and bringing it to his lips. “Maybe later.”

Stan nodded, standing up to put his own plate and Rick’s bowl in the sink, washing them all while Rick gave in and put his head down on the table.

“Come on.” Rick roused again when Stan’s hand gripped his shoulder. “I got news for ya, you’re showering before I’m letting you crash in my bed. So let’s get it done.”

“Seriously?” Rick complained, lifting his head with a growl. “Like you’re one to talk about cleanliness, have you seen the dust in the living room?”

“I ain’t gonna be cuddling the dust in the living room tonight.”

“Who says I’m gonna let you cuddle _me_?”

Stan gave him a flat look and a raised eyebrow. If Rick had the energy to be spiteful, he’d call the whole thing off and go home just to wipe that look off Stan’s face. Unfortunately for his ego, he absolutely didn’t.

 _“Ugh,_ fine. But I’m not shaving until tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Still, Rick grumbled and complained the entire journey to the bathroom, and even more so when he began getting undressed while Stan got the water running.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Rick said to him when Stan pulled off his tank shirt, clearly intending to get in with him.

“I’m not babysitting you, I’m saving myself some money on the water bill.”

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” Rick chortled, thinking about the last time they had showered together to “save water”. “I’m not sucking your dick this time, I’m too tired for that shit.”

Stan laughed, leaving his fez on the edge of the sink as Rick clumsily hiked one knee over the rim of the bathtub to get in. “I’ll take a raincheck, then.”

“Oh fuck you, Pines.”

The water was almost too hot, weirdly making goosebumps break out over his skin until he got completely under the spray, Stan close on his heels. He was immediately grateful that the other man had made him do this, though he’d continue to complain just on principle. He’d sleep so much more soundly being clean and warmed up.

Stan didn’t ask before grabbing the shampoo, squirting a healthy amount into his wide palm before reaching up and wordlessly lathering it into Rick’s hair. The bastard had the nerve to smirk as he rubbed the pads of his fingers over Rick’s bald spot; Stan, infuriatingly, still had gorgeous, thick hair, though it had evolved over the years from the rich brown he’d had when Rick first met him, to a salt-and-pepper mix, into the dark grey he currently supported. Rick hated him a little bit for it.

Still, he washed the remaining hair Rick did have thoroughly, then coaxed him back under the spray to rinse before washing his own hair. Rick took it upon himself to steal Stan’s soap in order to scrub his body down in the meantime, then passed off the bar to Stan to use.

When they were both clean, Stan smirked at him, stepping a bit closer and wrapping his arms around Rick’s waist.

“I told you, Pines, I ain’t up for that,” Rick grumbled, his hands going to Stan’s shoulders as the thick hair on the other man’s chest tickled against Rick’s hairless one.

“You said you weren’t up for giving me a blow job, you never said you weren’t interested in the other way around.” Stan’s lips moved against his neck, his stubble tickling a little bit. “It’ll help ya relax.”

He did have a point, and Rick hummed in acknowledgement. “Well… if you _insist_...”

Stan chuckled again, working his way up from Rick’s neck toward his jaw, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head, angling him down so Stan could reach his mouth.

“My dick’s the other direction, you know,” Rick couldn’t help but snark against his lips, earning him a pinch to the ass that made him squirm.

“Shut up,” Stan said.

Stan’s stubble was somehow even thicker than Rick’s, despite the fact that he was pretty confident that Stan had shaved that morning; the guy was just that freakishly hairy, his “five o’clock shadow” coming in before lunch half the time. Rick was almost convinced he wasn’t completely human; there had to be an actual bear in there somewhere in his bloodline.

Rick sighed as Stan’s lips traced down his neck again a couple minutes later, then along his collarbones before the other man finally sank down onto one knee with a grimace of effort.

“Gettin’ too old for this,” Stan groused, but still he took Rick’s hips in his hands, pulling him closer and unhesitatingly ducking his head to take Rick into his mouth.

Rick wasn’t hard yet, not even close, so it was laughably easy for Stan to fit him entirely in his mouth with no effort, the soft muscle settling on his tongue as his lips pressed against Rick’s pelvis. Rick sighed, his hands moving from Stan’s shoulders to his head, all too happy to just stand there and enjoy the ride. His exhaustion meant there was no guarantee he could even get it up, really, but he knew Stan would try anyway.

He let his eyes close, tilting his head back into the spray of the water still raining down on them, fingers scratching against Stan’s scalp as Stan gently began to lav his tongue along Rick’s cock. It was slow, relaxed, his cheeks sucking lightly while his tongue worked; thorough and in no kind of hurry to get them to the finish line.

Maybe it was the warm water or the smell of Stan’s clean, masculine soap, but miraculously, he did start to get hard; the swipe of Stan’s tongue against the tip of his dick sending pleasurable tingles up his spine.

“You son of a bitch,” Rick muttered, the heels of his palms massaging behind Stan’s stupidly big ears. “You like this way too much.”

Stan hummed, but didn’t stop, hands drifting from Rick’s waist to his ass and giving a squeeze that pulled him deeper into Stan’s mouth.

Slow, steady, careful; Rick was half asleep but still the pleasure built, driven higher and higher by Stan’s determined tongue, a moan of satisfaction rumbling in the man's throat, making Rick tremble.

“Son of a bitch,” Rick cursed again, panting now, his hands shifting to Stan’s shoulders for support; he was nearly there, Stan’s head bobbing between his thighs a little quicker in response. Stan knew his tells, and any other day, this might have been the point where he slowed down and backed off, taking a few minutes to kiss and bite at Rick's hips and thighs to draw it all out, keep him on edge.

Today, he kept going, his hands squeezing and petting over Rick's lower back and ass, swallowing and sucking Rick's dick with _intent._

 _"Fuck."_ He didn’t warn Stan before he came; there was no point, it wasn’t like Stan would stop to spit. He always was a bit of a whore that way, and Rick had teased him about it more than once, though Stan didn’t seem very phased by the playful insinuation. He would always just wink, and say something like “Just for you, Ricky,” before blowing him an exaggerated kiss with a sarcastic smirk. Rick didn’t know if that was actually true or not, but it always fluffed his ego anyway.

Stan pulled back and wiped his mouth when Rick was done, gripping the edge of the tub to help himself back up, wincing as he straightened out his knees.

“Getting too old for this,” he grumbled again, making Rick snort.

“You gonna rub one out?” Rick murmured, hooking both arms around Stan’s neck and drawing him flush against him. Rick absolutely did not have the energy to help him out with that, but he’d let Stan get himself off before they hopped out of the shower.

“Mmm, it’d be nice,” Stan pressed the words into Rick’s shoulder, returning the embrace with one hand while the other went between them, Stan taking himself into his grip. “You mind?”

“Don’t mind.”

Stan gave a little nod, beginning to give himself practiced strokes along his length; not frantic, but not the same slow and steady pace he’d taken with Rick. Which Rick was grateful for, if he was being honest; he was barely holding himself upright, the combination of his exhaustion and the loose, relaxed afterglow filling his usually screaming head with the sensation of cotton stuffing. It was nice, but it meant he wasn’t really going to last being on his feet much longer.

Thankfully, Stan knew how to be efficient when he needed to, just a handful of minutes before he was grunting, his hot spunk shooting onto Rick’s thigh before being washed away by the water. Stan looked up from Rick’s shoulder then, giving him a little smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth before reaching around him to turn the water off.

They didn’t bother with clothes, just dried off before making their way to Stan’s bedroom, Rick not-too-subtly leaning against him on the journey, his arm around Stan’s broad shoulders.

"Do me a favor, huh?" Stan grunted at him as Rick let himself fall face-first into the mattress. "Next time don't wait so long before coming here."

"Mm," Rick managed.

Stan's sheets smelled like cigar smoke and aftershave; the familiar, comforting scent the final little puzzle piece to lull him into a real, restful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://guilty-pleasures-abound.tumblr.com)
> 
> Maybe I'll do a chapter 2 for this, not sure yet.


End file.
